


Mistake

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Soul Eater, Soul Eater Not!
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, M/M, Panic, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 04:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1537106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Akane is good at thinking on his feet. But sometimes he’s wrong." Akane makes a mistake and Clay takes the fallout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistake

Akane is good at thinking on his feet. It’s his talent, the way he complements Clay’s slower but more thorough processing. Given enough time, Clay will always get the right answer, determine the correct reasoning and the accurate explanation, but time is a valuable commodity, and sometimes a snap decision needs to be made. That’s what Akane’s for. He’s good at reading situations, good at absorbing information and coming to a quick intuitive judgment. It’s why he’s the meister and Clay’s the weapon, why he leads in combat and Clay studies the information they’ve collected and draws the final conclusions upon which they act. And usually Akane is right, usually that flash of assumptions and skipped steps still gets him to the correct endpoint.

But sometimes he’s wrong.

It’s a straightforward fight. They’re supposed to be gathering information, listening in on a meeting they aren’t supposed to know about. Usually this works fine; Clay’s clumsy, sure, but with Akane holding him steady by his elbow and leading the way over the pavement they usually remain undetected. But sometimes they don’t, like this time, a guard Akane didn’t see until they almost ran into him, stumbling around a corner so they all three stand gazing blankly at each other for a breath.

Akane recovers first. He lets go of his hold on Clay’s wrist, says, “Clay,” without any further specification, and the blond boy starts to transform even before the shock has faded from his face, natural obedience overriding even instinctive surprise. The hilt of the longsword lands heavy and familiar in Akane’s palm, his fingers curl around the metal and Clay’s thoughts curl into his head, and everything is  _fine_ , everything is  _normal_. The guard’s eyes widen slightly, at the size of Clay’s weapon form or the speed of their recovery, and he stumbles a step back, and that’s normal too. Akane tenses his arm, brings all the trained strength of his back and shoulder and arm and wrist to bear, and sweeps Clay in a smooth arc, aiming for the guard’s arm as a non-lethal blow, even if it is a smaller target. The other man skitters away, insect-quick, and Akane follows, slightly slower with the weight of the weapon angled against the back of his neck but inexorable, certain in his eventual victory.

It’s the spark of the man’s hand that should tip him off. Akane recognizes the burst of irregular light -- he’s seen it flicker over his own arm, after all, every time he’s pulled up the crackling Soul Force energy from his own self and forced it out hard into an opponent’s body. He knows what it feels like, knows how to block it with a half-formed Force of his own, knows that he could just step aside, if he wanted. But something miscalculates, somewhere down the line -- maybe it’s a missed hour of sleep the night before, a delay in his thoughts from too little rest or not enough caffeine, or maybe it’s a breath of distraction from the familiar but always too-rare pleasure of Clay’s thoughts wrapping around the fringes of his own. Maybe it’s just a reflexive cringe, his body pulling away from the painful jolt of electricity through his blood. It doesn’t matter what the cause is; the effect is that when the guard’s hand comes snapping out alight with his Soul Wavelength, Akane lifts Clay instead of his own arm, brings the flat of the heavy blade up to catch the attack instead.

He realizes his mistake as soon as the spark makes contact. It catches on the pseudo-metal of Clay’s weapon-form, crackles and amplifies as it jumps down the blade, jolts into Akane’s arm via his hold on Clay’s hilt. But it’s not the prickle of unpleasant shock that stutters his heart with horror; it’s the scream of agony in his head, Clay’s voice cracking high with pain before it abruptly cuts off, the weapon in his hand reverting back to default human state as Clay loses his grip on  the transformation.

The guard is laughing, startled and pleased by Akane’s misstep, but apparently he doesn’t know Akane has Soul Force of his own, judging by the brief expression of surprise that hits his face as Akane’s palm hits his chest. The man jolts backwards, crumples to the ground in an unconscious heap by the wall of the alley, but Akane’s forgotten him already as he drops heavily to his knees to grab at Clay’s shoulders.

Soul Force isn’t usually lethal, at least not in small doses like the one Clay took, but that’s only if applied to a human form. Weapon forms are different, react in a strange conductive fashion, and Akane’s thoughts are spiraling into warning drilled into him by Sid over and over again, years of repetition  _don’t block with your weapon_ ,  _keep Clay away from Soul Force attacks_. It’s a rare ability, he never  _really_  expected to face someone who could use it, and now he can’t  _remember_  what to do, can’t think at all, and when he gets his fingers against Clay’s throat, under the weapon’s perpetually-loosened collar, he can’t find a pulse.

That can’t be right. That  _can’t_  be right. Clay’s  _fine_ , he’s just unconscious, maybe Akane’s on the wrong side, maybe he’s flipped his left and right like Clay sometimes does. He’s got both his hands against the weapon’s throat, now, seeking for the steady thump of Clay’s heart with fingers that are starting to shake, now, but his blood is chilling and he can’t find that rhythm anywhere, and when he holds his hand over the weapon’s mouth there’s no warm exhale there either.

Akane whimpers, like he hasn’t done since he was a child, since before he started at the Academy, since before he met Clay. His heart is thudding panicked and irregular in his chest, flailing for a pattern it can’t find without Clay, and he can’t  _think_  like that, Clay  _will_  be okay, he just has to remember the first aid classes they took back during their first year. Because accidents  _happen_ , combat goes wrong, just like this, and you should call for help if you can but they don’t have  _time_ , how long can a person survive without breathing, without his heart beating? How long has it  _been_ , anyway?

Akane’s vision is going blurry. His hands are shaking, or he thinks they’re shaking -- it’s hard to tell, with his whole body humming with panic and his sight fading in and out like there’s rain on his glasses. His brain is fishing for information, skipping through useless details like what was covered on last week’s class test and what Clay had for breakfast and how to tie a necktie and the way Clay’s mouth curves when he smiles and how Clay’s tie is never done up all the way, the way his skin feels damp from a shower or from Akane’s mouth and the way he sometimes mewls in his sleep, the way he smells and how his hair feels and he’s  _not breathing_  and Akane can’t  _see_  and he can’t  _save him_.

His hands come down from Clay’s still face, the unmoving skin of his neck, find the point Akane thinks he needs against the weapon’s chest. Because he needs to get Clay’s heart beating again, it’s just the electricity that stopped the rhythm, if he can start it again...high, just to the left, push down hard, hard enough that you might crack ribs, don’t worry about it it’s more important that he  _breathe_ , Akane’s not strong enough to do this, even with his arms locked out he’s not getting anything like the pressure he needs. Clay’s the strong one, Clay’s the support, Akane can lead but he can’t do this alone, he could  _remember_  if Clay would just  _breathe_ , he could be calm and cool and  _fine_  they could be  _okay_  if Clay were alive but he’s  _dead_  and it’s Akane’s  _fault_  and he can’t  _let this happen_.

His vision is blurred into unintelligibility, he can’t make out the movement of his own hands, so Akane doesn’t realize what’s happened until there’s a cough, a sucking gasp, and he doesn’t know how he recognizes it, breathing should all sound the same, but that’s  _Clay_. He jerks his hands away, terrified of hurting the weapon now that he’s breathing again, but then reaches back out, he can’t make out the blue of Clay’s eyes or the motion of his chest and he has to be  _sure_.

“Clay.” He sounds strangled, panicked, his voice dropping years and climbing octaves of terror. “Clay, Clay, are you okay,  _talk_  to me.”

“Akane.” Fingers close around Akane’s wrist and that voice is  _so_  familiar, years of experience pouring soothing comfort straight into the meister’s blood. Akane twists his hand, clutches desperately at Clay’s fingers, and his other hand finds the weapon’s collar, twines in under it and around the other boy’s neck. He can feel the thud-thud-thud of a heartbeat, now, so strong it’s clear under his thumb without him even searching for it. “What happened, why --” Fingers touch the meister’s cheek, brush over his skin. “You’re  _crying_.” The weapon moves, comes to sit up before Akane can stop him. “Akane, stop, why are you  _crying_ , what’s  _wrong_?”

Akane opens his mouth to...tell Clay to lie back down, to tell Clay everything is fine, to tell Clay’s he’s not crying. But when he opens his mouth his lungs are empty, and when he takes a breath it’s a horrible strained sob, and he’s coming forward, bruising his knees on the ground and crushing his and Clay’s hands painfully against his ribs, but his arm is coming around the weapon’s neck and Clay’s breathing steady against his ear, and he’s  _shaking_  he was supposed to be okay if Clay was okay, but his whole body is trembling uncontrollably and his glasses are tipped against his face and fogging up from tears he can’t control.

“Akane?” Clay sounds frenzied, now. His breath is coming faster and his heart is speeding against Akane’s cheek pressed into his shirt; his arm comes up around Akane’s shoulders, fingers dig gently into the meister’s dark hair. “Akane, are you okay?”

“No,” Akane wails into his shirt. “But you are.”

He can feel the confusion twist over Clay’s face without looking, but the worst of the frightened tension fades off from his shoulders, and when Clay’s hand smooths down against Akane’s neck the meister takes a shuddering inhale drenched in tears and lets himself breathe again.


End file.
